


Safety

by lavolpe (lykxxn)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6372826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/lavolpe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “but it’s for your own safety. If the Templars—”<br/>“Niccolò, please—”<br/>“I am so sorry,” he whispered, reaching to stroke your cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety

You watched anxiously as Volpe paced the room. “Look, I’m sure Niccolò will be back soon,” you said softly, despite the shake in your voice.

“That is of no consolation to me,” said Volpe in his sharp tone.

You frowned. You knew that he didn’t trust Machiavelli, but you knew in your heart that he  _couldn’t_ be the traitor. Volpe was wrong.

“My husband is not a—”

“Y/N, I’m aware that Machiavelli is your husband, but we must consider these things.” Did Volpe ever stop talking politics?

Probably not.

“All the evidence points to him, Y/N. You must understand that. He has been seen consorting with the Borgia!”

It was unthinkable. You didn’t want to hear it. Niccolò couldn’t be a traitor; he just couldn’t. Your husband, a Templar?

You shuddered at the thought.

There had to be a reason he was doing the things he was doing. Maybe it was long and complicated, but there just had to be a reason. Niccolò would never betray you, would he?

* * *

 

It was late when the door of the Sleeping Fox slammed shut. You were sat in the corner of the inn, playing cards with one of your thief friends.

“Where are they?” came Niccolò’s voice, and you perked up at the sound of your husband.

“Y/N!” he cried. “Where are they?”

It was then you realised he was glaring at Volpe. Confusion was evident in your features. Why was he angry at Volpe? Why would he have done something to you?

You saw Volpe’s arm direct him towards you, and Niccolò seemed to sag in relief as he hurried over.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly. Gently he caressed your cheeks with his hands. They were rough and calloused, but they always felt just perfect on your soft skin.

“I’m fine,” you said quietly, trying to prevent the whole inn from hearing your conversation, even though his outburst had made it practically impossible. “What’s wrong?”

Niccolò kissed your forehead softly. You frowned. He was shaking. How had you not noticed that before?

“I’m fine,” you repeated firmly, meeting his worried eyes. “Nothing’s happened to me, I swear.”

“We need to talk,” he said.

You got up, immediately sensing that this was something you would have to discuss in private. You pulled out some florins from your coin purse and put it in front of the thief you had been playing against.

“But we weren’t playing for money,” he said  in confusion.

“Keep it,” you said firmly.

Niccolò studied you as you both made your way towards the front of the inn. “You are too kind, Y/N. I don’t deserve you,” he said softly.

You couldn’t bring yourself to smile. The recurring thought that Niccolò might be a traitor had returned again.

“Y/N,” said Niccolò, once you were somewhere away from all the hustle and bustle of the inn. His voice had become suddenly serious, and you felt all the blood drain from your face.

“Y/N, I must be frank with you.” He put a hand on your shoulder, and you felt yourself tremble.

_Please don’t be a Templar, please don’t be a Templar._

“We are both in danger. I know what Volpe has told you, and he is right to be suspicious.”

“No!” you cried out before you could stop yourself. “I  _trusted_ you! And—and you’re a  _Templar_?”

“What?” asked Machiavelli in confusion. “Y/N, I’m no Templar. But I  _am_ associating with the Borgia.”

You were shaking and you just wanted to kiss him. If not a traitor, then what was he? Why was he associating with the Borgia?

“Niccolò—”

“No, Y/N, please just let me finish,” he said, almost pleading with you. “I’m trying to get information. Which means I interact with Templars on a daily basis. And what I’m about to say is going to kill me inside, but I have to do it.”

“Niccolò, what are you saying?” you whispered, tears filling your eyes already.

_Don’t say it. Please, Niccolò, don’t say it._

“We can no longer be seen together, Y/N. If—if the Templars were to find out that I was spying, they would kill you. And do you think I could live, knowing that your death could have been so easily prevented?” His voice shook as he spoke. “It would be all my fault.”

“Niccolò,” you begged. You didn’t care anymore. You didn’t care what you looked like. He was your  _husband_ and you  _loved_ him.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “but it’s for your own safety. If the Templars—”

“Niccolò, please—”

“I am so sorry,” he whispered, reaching to stroke your cheek.

“Get off me,” you hissed. Niccolò pulled away in surprise. You didn’t even want to look at him.

“Y/N? Y/N, I love you,” he said softly, but his voice was shaking, and you knew he was close to tears.

Immediately you regretted what you’d said, but didn’t it occur to him that he’d hurt you, too?

“You’ve made your choice, Niccolò.” you said in a hollow voice. It felt so uncharacteristic, so  _wrong_.

And you turned and hurried out of the door as tears began to stream down your cheeks. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

“Y/N! Y/N, wait!”

You hurried through the inn, flinching away from a hand on your shoulder.

“Y/N, what’s wrong?” It was Volpe.

You couldn’t hold it in any longer. A strangled sob escaped your lips and you buried your head into Volpe’s chest.

“Oh,  _tesoro_ ,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around you in a comforting hug. “What happened?”

Before you could offer him a reply, Machiavelli called out your name. You could hear his footsteps, and you buried your head further into Volpe’s chest. You didn’t want to see the man who had just broken your heart.

“What are you doing?” he asked in an offended tone. “Leave them alone. They’re  _my_ spouse.”

“Well, clearly they don’t want to talk to you right now,” replied Volpe sternly. “Go home, Machiavelli. I think you’ve upset Y/N enough.”

You heard Niccolò’s sharp footsteps and then the door to the Sleeping Fox slammed shut.

“What happened?” asked Volpe softly. “What did he do to you?”

“He—he doesn’t want us to see each other anymore,” you whispered. You weren’t sure if you should tell Volpe about his association with the Borgia. 

“ _Bastardo_ ,” hissed Volpe. “Listen, you can stay here tonight. And tomorrow I want you to visit Claudia at the Rosa in Fiore. She will keep you safe.”

Volpe gave you a room to yourself, denying any money you tried to give him. You wondered if he was interested in you, but you tried to shake the thought from your mind. He was much too old for you. It wasn’t right.

You slept fitfully, waking at least twice. The bed was empty and cold, and you missed Niccolò dearly, and despite everything, you wished he was here now.

Maybe you had made a mistake.

The next morning, when you arrived at the Rosa in Fiore, Claudia greeted you.

“Y/N!” she exclaimed, and hugged you in greeting. “I heard from Volpe about you and—” She stopped and gave you a sympathetic look.

“Claudia?” Maria’s voice sounded from the other side of the room. “Have they arrived?”

“Yes, Mother,” said Claudia, and she guided you to a room. Clearly she already occupied this room, but it had two beds so you assumed you would be sharing. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said softly. “I didn’t want you to be mistaken for a courtesan, so I thought you might be safer if we shared rooms.”

“Thank you,” you said sincerely.

* * *

 

It had been over two months since you’d last seen Niccolò, and now you weren’t sure whether it was a good thing or not.

At first, Claudia had made you feel better about yourself; you had felt freer and younger without having Machiavelli around, but now there was a deep pit in your heart where you desperately missed him.

At night, you lay awake thinking about him: his smile, his rough hands on your body, his gentle touch.

Maybe you had made a mistake.

Still, you spoke often with Ezio, and although you didn’t harbour any romantic attraction towards him, he was a good companion and you found yourself drawn to him, simply so you could speak.

One Monday morning you found yourself speaking with him.

“He misses you, you know,” said Ezio casually, and you froze.

“What?” you asked. Why was he doing this? You didn’t need to hear about Niccolò. You missed him enough without having Ezio spew all this false hope at you.

“Machiavelli,” he said. “He asks about you a lot. He wants to know how you are.”

“And you’ve decided to tell me about this because—?” you asked, your voice harsher than you intended.

“Because you miss him too.” Ezio’s voice was low. “I know you do, Y/N. Why don’t you speak to him?”

“I don’t need my heart broken twice, thank you.”

“You really believe he’s going to hurt you? Y/N, Niccolò  _loves_ you, and he always will.” Ezio smiled. “And I know you love him too.”

“I can’t,” you said quickly. “I can’t do this. The last time we spoke—”

“— was almost three months ago,” said Ezio firmly. “Just give it a shot, Y/N. Besides, if he hurts you he’ll have our entire Order to answer to.”

You sighed. “You won’t let this drop until I say yes, will you?”

“All I’m asking is for you to  _try_.” said Ezio. “He’s been looking like a kicked puppy for three goddamn months and I’m sick of it.”

“Fine,” you said finally. “I’ll talk to him.”

* * *

 

This was an awful idea. You were shaking as you watched Machiavelli enter. Slowly, he approached you and sat down on the chair opposite yours.

Nothing could happen to you, you reasoned. This was Volpe’s inn, and he and several thieves were on guard in case they were needed. You thought Machiavelli knew that, too, judging by the careful way he was holding himself.

“It is good to see you,” you said, more out of politeness than anything.

“You lie,” murmured Niccolò. He seemed to hardly move his mouth when he spoke, and you took in his expression and stance. Although he did not look defensive, he was not aggressive either. His face was pale and he kept making to put his head in his hands. There was almost no colour in his cheeks.

“You look like death,” you said softly. “Why are you here if you are not well?”

“I am perfectly well, thank you,” he said in a voice that clearly contradicted his statement. He looked up for a brief second, and your eyes widened in surprise. He looked  _exhausted_.

“When was the last time you slept?” you asked quickly.

Niccolò stared at you with the expression of a deer caught in headlights. Ah. So you were right, then. He  _wasn’t_ sleeping. “Uh, well—”

“Alright, let’s try a different question,” you said. “When did you stop sleeping well?”

“When you left,” he mumbled, but you heard it clear as day.

What? He hadn’t slept through the night for  _three months_? You were aware of a low growl coming from your mouth.

“Volpe!”

La Volpe hurried over. There was a brief look of panic on his face, but he turned to you calmly. “Is something wrong, Y/N?”

“Yes, there is!” you cried. “He hasn’t slept for three months! And what have you done to help him?”

“We tried everything, Y/N, believe me,” said Volpe quietly. “He was so lonely that he just couldn’t sleep, and then the nightmares—”

“— which he never would’ve had if  _you_ hadn’t accused him of being a traitor! I can’t believe you just let him suffer for so long! He’s walking around like the dead! He looks so, so ill and you’ve just let—”

Volpe’s hand closed around your mouth.

“Shh,” he whispered, and slowly he directed your head towards Machiavelli, who had his head on the table, snoring softly.

You smiled a little. “Can we get a room? I’d hate him to wake up because of the noise.”

“Of course,” said Volpe softly, “but how are we going to get him upstairs without waking him?”

You smiled smugly. “You’re going to carry him.”

Volpe groaned, but obliged. Gently he lifted Niccolò over his shoulder, and carefully carried him into the nearest available room.

You lay on the bed next to your husband. For the first time it felt as if nothing had changed between the two of you. “I love you,” you murmured, in the hope that he could hear it in his sleep.

La Volpe cleared his throat and you looked up in surprise. You had forgotten about him.

But he wasn’t clearing his throat at you. Ezio was stood in the doorway, and he sighed.

He pulled out his coin purse and pushed some florins into Volpe’s palm.

“I told you they’d say it first.”


End file.
